the body electric
by astrovagant
Summary: It all starts with Sam Manson. [A story about coming of age, love, and learning how to live when you're half dead. Summary subject to change.]
1. Chapter I

**Author's Note:** Hoo boy... so this is. A really personal story for me as a trans  & mentally ill person of color. I hope y'all enjoy the ride.

* * *

 _i._

 _the day my ribcage became monkey bars_

* * *

It all starts with Sam Manson.

It's the end of the seventh grade, and you still watch the cool kids in awe even though the only time they see you is when they're looking for an easy target. You're the shortest kid in your grade, with long black hair always pulled into a greasy ponytail and weirdly long limbs that you have yet to grow into.

But Samantha Manson…

She's just the right amount of curvy, with strawberry blonde hair and light eyes that you're too nervous to actually look at long enough to figure out their true color. And she's smart too - every time the teachers in your shared classes call on her, she gets the answer right while somehow turning the subject into a soapbox for her own social justice crusade. She and Paulina and Star have been inseparable since she waltzed into school in the middle of the fifth grade, right after Christmas Break.

It's weird, because she's too nice to be an A-lister. She has the looks, and clearly she has the money with all of the designer labels that she wears, but every time Dash or Kwan shove Tucker into a locker or Paulina, Valerie, and Star make mean comments about your second-hand clothes, she always gives you both an apologetic smile before rushing off to join them.

You spend the summer vacation before eighth grade reading about astrophysics and looking through the telescope that your parents made for you out of scrap metal for your twelfth birthday. It's pretty beat up because it was made in a hurry and you drag it everywhere with you, but it's yours and that's enough. You sleep over at Tucker's house at least once a week, but you try to make sure that he never comes when your parents are around. You've been friends since the third grade when he tried to flirt with you on the playground by shoving a brand new Nintendo DSi XL in your face, but you're afraid that your parents will somehow ruin it with their loud clothing and louder voices and constant scientific jargon. Tucker's smart, but but he doesn't believe in ghosts or anything supernatural - says everything can be explained by science. You agree, but your parents are convinced that ghosts aren't a pseudoscience like the world claims as they scoff at horoscopes and quote famous engineers.

And then there's Jazz, your sister. She always calls you Ellie even though you hate that name with a passion, and constantly tries to show off whenever anyone's around and act better. It doesn't help that Tucker seems to have a crush on her and always ends up following her around like a stray puppy.

Before you know it, you're scrambling to finish your assigned reading list and going clothing shopping at the local Goodwill and your sister's closet when necessary - she's in highschool, now, a sophomore, and she's tall and willowy and most of her clothes from middle school don't fit her anymore, anyway, so she's willing part with it with minimal complaining if you let her teach you how to put on eyeliner.

The first day of eighth grade is busy and noisy and makes you want to become even smaller in the powder blue bedazzled T-shirt and blue jeans that Jazz picked out for you. The eyeliner that you put on you expertly itches and your lips feel sticky and weird. You move through the motions of the morning like a zombie, trying your best to fade into the background and ignore the muttering jibes about how you actually look like a girl for once.

It's recess when you notice her. She must be new, you think, because you've never seen anyone wearing that much black unless they're going to a funeral aside from the high schoolers who hang out in the alley behind the Nasty Burger - even her hair is black. It contrasts against her pale skin, making her look almost ghostly. She's clad in the biggest boots you've ever seen and a knee length black dress with and holding a large tome in her hands as she sits alone by a tree, tuning out the world around her.

Tucker's playing his Gameboy and sitting on the bench that you're standing near when you point her out. He barely shoots her a glance before shrugging in disinterest and returning back to his game, "Must be a transfer or something, I've never seen her around."

You find yourself watching her a little too obviously until the bell rings, startling you and making you put your twisting hands into the soft pockets of the hoodie you threw on over your T-shirt to calm yourself.

Over the next few days, you notice that the A-listers are missing a member. You wonder what happened to Samantha Manson, with her perfect hair and nice clothes, and find yourself hoping that she's okay.

It's a week into the school year when the new girl interrupts U.S. History to rant about the severe mistreatment of indigenous peoples upon colonization of the Americas. You look on in shock because there's only one person that you've seen speak to a teacher like that.

When the teacher responds, your suspicions are confirmed, "That is very true, Samantha. It's a pity that history textbooks seem to gloss over important aspects of history so as to gloss over the negative aspects behind this country's foundation."

Samantha Manson smiles that all-too-familiar self-satisfied smile before returning to the notes splayed neatly on her desk in purple pen, and you end up tuning the rest of the class out because you're too busy trying to figure out what happened to make a girl with everything give it up.

...

"Hey. Can I sit here?"

You look up from the mush that you're picking at listlessly in surprise, eyes wide as a deer that's about to be run over by your family's RV. Tucker, who's sitting across from you, nearly chokes on his meatloaf sandwich. No one ever asks to sit at your table - even the lowest of the low on the food chain avoid you as though you're going to contaminate them with the crazy bug.

Your mouth hangs open for a moment before Tucker kicks you under the table, giving you a meaningful look from behind his thick glasses. Closing it with an audible click, you look down at the gray-brown mass on your styrofoam plate that you think is supposed to be mashed potatoes and gravy.

"Uh… sure." you whisper, not daring to look back up at Samantha Manson's piercing eyes.

"Thanks," she says, as though she isn't an ex-A-Lister throwing her life down the toilet for good, "It gets pretty boring, eating alone by a tree."

She smiles another signature Samantha Manson smile, the kind that makes your heart flutter just a bit - it must be nerves.

Tucker finally speaks up, no longer paying any attention to his new PDA and instead staring at the new table addition as though she's grown an extra head or two, "You do know who we are, right? I mean you…" he trails, eyes shifting, "Why are you here? You're Samantha Manson."

The enigma wrapped up in a mystery shrugs, unwrapping what looks to be a sandwich with nothing but green stuff in it, "Because I want to be. My name's Sam, by the way. Samantha is far too mainstream."

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

Here's the deal: this is a fic about learning to love yourself. It's about life and loss and pain and sorrow and, ultimately, surviving. That's all I have to say at the moment. This has been sitting around on my computer for over a year now, and I've finally got the confidence back to actually work on it so yeah. Here goes!

Please give me feedback, I'm super excited about this story and would love to here what everyone thinks!

 _~astrovagant_


	2. Chapter II

_ii._

 _you do not have to leave to arrive_

* * *

The three of you eating lunch together quickly becomes routine. Sam's a vegetarian who won't eat anything with a face and Tucker's a carnivore who rarely eats anything without. It makes for an interesting experience, sitting between the two of them as they duke it out. You can't really take a position - you'll eat anything that isn't contaminated by the weird chemicals that your parents deal with. Lunch at school is one of the only times that you can eat without worrying about it coming to life and eating your face.

But you know you can't say that without getting weird looks and possibly alienating your new friend, so you keep your mouth shut.

Still, you end up getting dragged into it anyway.

"What do you think, Dani?"

You stuff your mouth with food in an effort to avoid responding. Today's mush is mac and cheese. It's actually half decent if you ignore the fact that it's more green than yellow - you're hoping that it's broccoli bits and not something unsanitary, but with the school's cafeteria you can never be too sure. You savor in the flavor before swallowing, the two sets of eyes boring into you making you want to hide behind the tree you're leaning on.

"Everything is good in moderation." you say sagely, and they both burst out laughing for some reason you can't quite comprehend before Tucker grins meaningfully and gives you a Look because Sam's smiling and it's radiant and it leaves you breathless.

...

"-It's like they've never breathed an ounce of individuality in their lives. They want me to be a stereotypical pretty little blonde cheerleader. It's just not me! It never was! I'm so tired of parading around with pink lipstick and sparkly pastel debutante dresses!"

Sam's out of breath by the time she's finished her rant, hands curled tightly enough for you to wonder if her long, black fingernails are leaving marks in her skin. It's Friday afternoon, the last time you and Tucker will see Sam until Monday. Apparently, her mom is making her go to a beauty pageant. You're not sure how to comfort her - you understand the alien feeling that accompanies you when you're forced to get dressed up in frilly clothes all too well, but something tells you that it's not quite the same. Your mother was never one to push dresses on you - after all, she pretty much lives in her hazmat suits - but the very concept of femininity feels foreign to you. Like an ever-present layer of grime on your skin.

"That's rough." Tucker says, too fixated on the double cheeseburger that he's reveling in to pay the conversation much attention. Luckily, Sam's too upset to notice the fact that she's being ignored. You nod in agreement, wrapping up your fries covertly in hopes that both of your friends are too preoccupied to notice. The fries are probably going to be what tide you over for the weekend aside from cereal unless your mom makes her way out of the lab or Jazz tries to cook something - you're terrified of using the oven, stove, or microwave at your house because it seems to reanimate anything that it cooks. You lost your appetite for zombie food years ago, when your mom stopped cutting up your food into bite-sized pieces for you and you realize that it could fight back.

"I just don't get why they can't be okay with me as I am." Sam mutters, finally unwrapping her own veggie burger with soy cheese and biting into it dejectedly.

"At least you'll be back by Sunday, right? How bad can two days be?"

When you look into her cold, dead eyes three days later on Monday morning, you regret saying anything at all.

...

Sometimes, when Sam talks about her parents trying to force mainstream fashion on her, you feel a sense of familiarity. You've always been a tomboy. Growing up as the daughter of the small town's mad scientists, you've never had many friends. But when you'd go to the playground on your own, without your parents in tow, you always gravitated towards the boys. To them, it didn't matter as much that you only really wanted to swing and tell ghost stories. In elementary school, ghosts are much cooler than Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy.

But girls are girls and boys are boys and there's no room for anything else, so you put on the makeup Jazz got you over the summer and stare the mirror hoping that, someday, you'll recognize the person looking back as yourself.

It never quite works.

"Why does what you wear matter so much to you?" Tucker flops down in the booth after setting his tray down with a surprising gentleness, clearly annoyed. You can kind of understand why - when Sam goes on her rants, she doesn't stop until she's either run out of steam or gets distracted.

Sam narrows her eyes. "Individuality matters, Tucker. The black I wear is just as important as that hat on your head. Do I question the beret? No. Because it's a part of who you are and you're entitled to express yourself!"

Tucker is unimpressed by the rant, "I dunno, seems like a bunch of girl drama to me. Clothes are clothes. And this hat is a chick _magnet_." He takes a monstrous bite of his meatloaf and chews noisily, unaware of the oncoming storm that is Sam's anger. Her eyes are cold and hard.

"Yknow, considering that your two best friends are girls, you'd think that you'd be a little more understanding! Women in society have to deal with so much. We're expected to wear the newest trends and buy the latest makeup and! Do our eyebrows! And if we don't, we're seen as less than human, like our only value is how we look and I hate being a part of that! And that just now, the way you reduced my perfectly valid feelings to "girl drama", was the exact reason why I want to dress how I want to dress. To show everyone that I'm more than what I wear. That who I truly am and how I contribute to the world is more important than how I look."

You're staring at Sam in awe by the time she's done speaking. It amazes you sometimes, how smart she is. Tucker looks uncomfortable now and is staring at his food like it holds the answers to the universe.

"Jeez, Sam," you say, "I've never seen Tucker speechless before. Good job."

"Thanks." she grins, before taking a satisfied bite of her salad.

…

You and Sam are sitting in the shade. Tucker's out sick and two empty trays sit next to you as you wait for recess to end. Absentmindedly, you pluck at pieces of grass and dandelions tie them into knots. If she weren't so focused on her book, you're sure that Sam'd be giving you a lecture on how every life is important. If it were up to her, lawn mowers wouldn't exist and plants would be taking over the earth.

"Do you like girls?"

The world stops. Your hands falter, and you twist them together before placing them in your lap carefully and looking up. You're not sure how long she's been staring at you - sometimes you just. Space out and lose track of time.

Her gaze is intense, blue-gray eyes like knives as she waits for your response. You look at your hands - now free of plant life, worrying at the bottom seam of your shirt and studying the pattern - turquoise and brown, with flowers all over it and long sleeves.

"W-what do you mean?" you finally ask, cursing the way that your words waver.

Sam grins mischievously, "I've seen the way you look at Paulina. It's like you worship her or something. And not in the "I wanna be her" way. More like you want her in your pants."

A sort of fear overtakes you, rushing through your veins like ice as your heart starts to race and your hands start to shake. You've always felt a strange sense of admiration towards Paulina, with her nice clothes and long hair and the way she lights up entire rooms with her beauty. You never thought of it as any more than longing until now and it scares you for reasons that you can't understand.

"I don't. I'm not-"

"Hey, don't worry about it. I don't care if you're gay or whatever. I'm bi myself, it's not like its a problem. I didn't mean to upset you." Sam says, voice softer now. Her hand touches your shoulder and you regret causing the sad expression that she makes when you flinch away.

The rest of lunch is spent in awkward silence, and you're almost relieved when the school bell rings so you can escape.

...

Things between you and Sam are tense. After staying quiet about it for a grand total of three hours, Tucker finally cracks when she passes by you with nothing but an awkward smile before she goes to her next class instead of stopping to talk for the third time in a day.

"Okay, what did I miss? Because I feel like I missed something here."

You blink at Tucker innocently, raising your eyebrows and tilting your head like you have no idea what he's talking about.

He groans. "Don't give me that look. What happened between you and Sam?"

You curse the heavens for presenting you with a best friend that is perceptive as well as intelligent before slamming your locker shut and zipping up your backpack. Taking your own sweet time in hopes that you'll have to go to class before explaining anything, you fiddle with the straps, taking in the obnoxious orange of the canvas and testing the weight.

"We may've had an argument. I think I offended her." a frown makes its way onto your face as you remember the events of the afternoon before. You haven't spoken since, and you're not sure if you're going to. The situation spun out of control and you didn't react properly and it probably ruined everything. Sam isn't the forgiving type.

And it really sucks because Sam's the only friend you've ever really had aside from Tucker, and you didn't even have to open your mouth to mess it up.

Tucker almost laughs. "I don't think I've ever seen you actually argue with anyone in your life, Dan. You're a human doormat."

You open your mouth to protest before closing it. It's true. You know it, Tucker knows it, all of your teachers know it - you don't _do_ conflict.

"Seriously, though," Tucker soothes, "It'll work out. Just talk to her about it. It's probably all just a big misunderstanding."

That night, you open up your chat and click on her name. After thinking for a few minutes, you finally begin to type:

 **Danielle F. (dfenton)** \- hey, about yesterday... I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you or anything. you surprised me and I reacted badly. I'm sorry.

 **Sam M. (mallgoth13)** \- Don't worry about it. I've been thinking about it all day and shouldn't have sprung that on you, it wasn't fair of me. I'm not mad or anything. I'll see you tomorrow.

Ten minutes into lunch hour the next day, Sam comes up to your table and sits down. You're content to pretend that it's any other day and that nothing happened, but, of course, Tucker is about as subtle as a brick wall that you're slamming into at one hundred miles per hour.

"I wondered when you'd show up." he teases, "Dani here seems to think she's capable to scaring you off."

She raises her eyebrows at this and you shrink into your seat, studying your mashed potatoes like you're gonna be quizzed on their constitution.

"It's gonna take a lot more than an awkward conversation to chase me away." she scoffs, apple in hand, "I'm stubborn like that."

Finally, she succeeds in catching your eye. Her smile is blinding, like the sun, like a thousand stars, and you think you might believe her.

...

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

So, I updated? Don't expect a lot of consistency with my update times, I'm not too great at being consistent or reliable. This is my main project right now, though, and I'm determined to make something out of it.

The title of this fic as well as the titles for each chapter are taken from Andrea Gibson's "I Sing The Body Electric, Especially When My Power's Out". Please listen to/read it, it's beautiful and poignant and honestly the inspiration for this story. I cry every time I listen to it, to be honest. I had to read it to come up with a title for this chapter and I'm still crying, right now, because it's beautiful. Good stuff.

Anyway, please tell me what you think! Feedback is incredibly important to me~

-astrovagant


	3. Chapter III

_iii._

 _the storm in me_

* * *

Time passes quickly. Fall turns to winter which turns to spring, and soon the birds are singing like they never stopped and the flowers are beginning to bloom. The cool rain leaves a distinct smell on the earth and the breeze is softer, now.

With the second semester of eighth grade comes the sexual education aspect of health class. For some reason you don't quite understand, the class is split by gender, leaving you, Sam, and every other girl in your grade sitting in the room awkwardly for an hour every day and listening to your middle-aged teacher preach about your changing bodies and abstinence. It seems pretty pointless, especially considering that Jazz gave you her very scientific version of The Talk after your first day of sixth grade.

Sam is oddly quiet for the first few weeks of the semester. Neither of you talk about the class aside from to discuss homework assignments, but there's a weird vibe that comes from her whenever she steps into the classroom - like she's angry about something. Still, she does the work and keeps her mouth shut, rolling her eyes when your classmates make suggestive jokes. Then, one day, she snaps.

"Is there something that you want to say, Samantha?" Mrs. McMillan asks when she catches Sam rolling her eyes during a lecture.

"Yes, actually. I wanted to know how this class is any use to us at all, considering the fact that it glosses over pretty much everything that we need to know about sexual health."

Mrs. McMillan raises her eyebrows and purses her lips, "Would you care to elaborate, Ms. Manson?"

"Well, it's been proven that abstinence isn't a viable or helpful concept for most adolescents. Most people aren't going to wait until they're married. We're teenagers! What we need is access to birth control, information on STDs, and the right resources in case we get ourselves into trouble. And that's not even taking into account the fact the fact that you're only teaching us about heterosexual relations. What about gay kids? Bisexuals?"

"I'm not sure that that's an appropriate topic for-"

Sam stands up from her seat, "And what is an appropriate topic for sex ed, Mrs. McMillan?"

"I do not appreciate the way that you're speaking to me, Ms. Manson. Sit down right now, or you're going to the principal's office."

Sam doesn't sit down.

...

Sam's lips are curled with satisfaction when she approaches your table. It's been an hour since you last saw her stalking out of the Health room, note in hand, headed towards her demise, and you're slightly concerned.

"So, I heard you and Ms. McMillan went at it today. Man, that must've been a riot." Tucker says, taking a huge bite of his sloppy joe. She looks on in disgust as it drips onto his plate sluggishly, bright red and slimy.

"Did you get a detention?" you ask, distracting her from the travesty that is Tucker's eating habits. The grin is back full-force as she digs into her plain black backpack and pulls out a red slip, brandishing it like a trophy.

Tucker whoops, "You're a real rebel now, Sam!"

You've never really gotten a detention before, besides that time in the third grade when you threatened to cut Starla DeLisle's pigtails with a pair of scissors for making fun of you in the lunch line, but you're pretty sure getting in trouble isn't something to be proud of. You must be missing something, though, because Tucker looks impressed and Sam looks like the cat who ate the canary and neither seem to be particularly stressed about her impending detention, so you let them have their moment as they make fun of and compare notes on the shitty slogans both classes' teachers seem to be so fond of.

Part of you wants to join in on the criticism and talk about how silly it seems that the class is split by sex and how arbitrary it all feels to you, talk about how awkward being put in an all-girls class feels when really both groups are learning the same thing is, but another part of you screams at you that you're being weird, to not say anything and fade into the background of their conversation. And suddenly, you feel more lonely than ever as you listen to them and pick at the bread of your own sloppy joe, watching the sauce congeal on your plate and not eating a thing.

...

Sex Ed continues to be uncomfortable, and the entirety of the eighth grade seems to take a collective breath of relief when it's over. As the class returns to being co-ed, you can't help but feel an even bigger relief for reasons you can't name and don't quite want to. It's like an itch you can't scratch. But the more you think about it, the more you wonder.

You've been thinking a lot lately.

Sometimes, you don't quite see yourself as a girl. You look into the mirror sometimes and try to recognize yourself as one, but it's hard. You're slowly developing curves, and acne is your worst enemy, but when you started bleeding out of nowhere and Jazz gave you the "girl talk" in place of your mom a few weeks ago, who is still pretty much solely focused on whatever she's been working on in the lab, you just wanted to burn your underwear and hide for a million years. Your training bras feel so itchy and foreign that you want to tear them off of you every time you try them on, forcing you to wear sports bras, and whenever you catch yourself in the bathroom mirror with your long dark hair and your newly developed "womanly assets" your heart drops.

You'd thought that you'd leap for joy when you finally started to look more like your sister, but now that boys who go to Casper High look at you appraisingly you just feel sick. You've always preferred baggy clothes, but now the big blue hoodie that your dad let you borrow from his closet is all that you wear and the soft inside is starting to get rough with all of the wash cycles, even though you try to dry it by hand when you can.

It's confusing, because you know that you should be happy that you finally look more like a girl and less like a gender neutral blob with hair, but you're starting to miss the times when people used to accidentally refer to you as "he". You'd never noticed the fluttering warmth that it brought until people stopped using it as much towards you.

Lately, you've taken to bringing up a private browser on the home-made computer in your room and searching for answers. When you finally cave and Google "I'm a girl but I feel like a boy?" a new term comes up. You've only heard the term "transgender" a few times in passing, and it's usually said as though it's a bad thing when it's mentioned. The concept scares you because there's so much that you don't know, and what if that's what you are?

It explains so much, but the more you think about it the more scared you get. You're going to keep developing, and there's no stopping it unless you get on puberty blockers, and your parents have never really taken you or Jazz to the doctor unless you're sick, and everyone will probably just think this is a "phase" like Sam's parents think goth is one and transitioning costs more money than your parents have - they're barely able to keep the lab going as it is. Being trans means doctors and attention and having to tell everyone that you're not a girl all the time. It also means becoming a whole new person with a whole new identity and putting energy into making sure that people respect it.

It's hard enough for you to raise your hand in class. You're already singled out because of your eccentric parents and your genius sister who could've graduated when she was fourteen but decided not to because it wouldn't be "conducive to her social and emotional development as a gifted adolescent". You don't need another reason to be noticed, and you don't want one.

So why does it feel like coming out is the only option?

...

* * *

 _ **Author's Note:**_

This has been sitting in Google Drive, completed, for awhile. Not sure how long. It's been a weird few months for me. Anyway, please follow my DP blog! It's qhostboi. I also have a DC blog, j-oyfire, and you can ask me for my main!

Until next time,

 _astrovagant_


	4. Chapter IV

_iii._

 _my mouth is a fire_ escape

* * *

"I think I might be a boy."

It comes out all at once, leaving your mouth before you can stop it. You've been trying to psych yourself up for hours towards the big reveal. In the end, it feels like someone else is saying the words, even as your lips move to form them.

Tucker stops. His avatar nearly gets shot before he pauses the game. The colors from the screen reflect off of his glasses in the dark room. He takes them off, cleans them, and slides them back onto his nose, and you briefly wonder if he heard you. Maybe he heard but is pretending he didn't or maybe he's angry, maybe he's _disgusted_ and has nothing to say at all. It feels like your heart is breaking and _fuck_ , why did you have to go and ruin everything -

"Okay."

You freeze.

"What?" you breathe, voice wobbly and so, so small.

You must look like you're about to cry because Tucker turns to you, placing both hands firmly on your shoulders and looking you in the eye, "Dude, you're my best friend. Nothing's ever gonna change that."

Your lips curl up in a watery smile, and you wipe your eyes with the sleeve of your hoodie.

"Thanks." you say.

The night goes pretty normally after that. You steadily eat your way through a bag of Doritos and play games until your eyes feel like sandpaper. At some point, he turns to you looking like he just learned the secret of life.

"Does this mean I get to call you bro now?" he asks, and you laugh.

You have good friends.

…

Ever since they began mapping out the portal to another dimension that they're planning on building sometime before you go to high school, both of your parents have been holed up in the basement twenty-four seven. Not that this is really any different than how they usually are, but when it's ten PM and dinner's just started cooking, it's hard not to notice how quiet the house has become aside from the occasional clanking and cursing coming from down below.

Jazz is angry about it, but you don't really mind the lack of attention. It gives you a lot of time to go out with Sam and Tucker and play video games. You eat at the Nasty Burger a few times a week and at Tucker's house the rest of the time, so you're not starving, and weekends are spent on the floor of his living room floor staying up until the sun peeks through the curtains behind the couch. Sam's weird about hanging out at her house, so the three of you often find yourselves at the library or the park after school, finishing homework and studying for the standardized tests that are supposed to dictate how well you'll do in life, or at least in high school. You know most of the material already, but Sam and Tucker don't know that and it's worth the boredom of review to not be alone.

Time is strange, though, and spring break approaches faster than you expect it to.

You don't know how to feel about it. Usually, you'd jump at the chance to be away from school, but Tucker's going out of town for Easter and, while Sam is pretty open-minded, you're afraid that your parents will scare her away with their particular brand of weird, which means that you'll be spending most of the week alone.

You don't like being alone, nowadays. There's a strange, creeping feeling in you that hides away when you stay busy. It's easy to ignore when you're with your friends, like a speck of dirt on a large white wall, but the moment you're alone it closes you in. One time, when you were seven, you got trapped in the Fenton Stockades while playing hide-and-seek with Jazz. It took them five hours to find you in there, curled up in its metal embrace, tear streaks running down your face, fists bruised from banging on it from the inside.

It's like that, the feeling, but this time, there's no one to hear your tiny fists thumping echoing against steel, no one to come running to your rescue and bandage your hands and make you hot milk with honey.

That concept terrifies you, so you try not to think about it, or the feeling, or the "T" word or how lost you feel. You try not to think about anything at all.

And it works, until it doesn't.

…

It's two months until eighth grade graduation and you just want it to be over. It's getting harder and harder to stand borrowing your sister's clothes, and every time she tries to mention boys or makeup to you or calls you "Ella" you have to grit your teeth to keep yourself from telling you that that's. Not. Your. Name.

She's been worried about you, recently. Always trying to strike up conversation and never willing to just let you be, hinting at your parents that they should be around more, bugging you when you forget to wash your hair and offering to braid it like she used to. You've taken to putting it into a low ponytail and trying to pretend that it doesn't exist - you've been growing it out for years because when you were younger and kept it short people always mistook you for a boy, but now you're daydreaming about those days and maybe cutting it will make the wrongness of being in your body disappear.

You stop wearing makeup and avoid your reflection. All the while, you dream of a boy with short black hair, baby blue eyes, and a confident smile looking back at you in the mirror.

...

* * *

 **Author's Note:**

... So this is a thing, I guess. Sorry for taking nearly a year to update, I have confidence issues in general, but especially with writing and ESPECIALLY with something so personal and subjective. Hope you enjoyed! Please leave a comment, I love feedback and positive feedback really helps with my confidence, which in turn makes me write more.


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